The Truth Beneath The Surface
by Steph Marks
Summary: "Three months ago he lost his job. Two weeks ago he spent the last of his money. Yesterday he cried himself to sleep because, today, it is two years since Sherlock has been home." My first fic! Eventual Johnlock. Probably no smut. Post Reichenbach 'cause I'm original like that. Rated T for attempted suicide. Might change later. EDIT rating bumbed for... reasons. Still no smut.
1. Chapter 1 : The Problem

**A/N**** : Hello! Thank you so much for reading my story! This is my first Fanfic so I hope you like it. Please R & R because without motivation I have a hard time writing… well, anything, really. Just so you know, because this is my first fic, I have no Beta. Any and all mistakes are products of my own stupidity. Also I'm Australian so I'm sorry if it doesn't sound British enough… Have fun!**

**Disclaimer ****: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters, I just like playing with their lives. ; )**

**The Truth Beneath The Surface **

**Chapter 1 : The Problem**

Two years. It was two years that day since he'd lost his best friend. Two years since John Watson became John Crazy. He stood at the foot of the grave, his eyes on the patch of green that shielded the great detective from the horrors that assailed the living. The last time he'd stood there, that site had been dirt, the grave fresh as the wound on his soul still was. A part of him lay in that ground, a part he'd lost when the world forgot the name that decorated its headstone. John's glazed eyes travelled over the lush grass, too rich with life for a cemetery, and came to rest on the engraved marker that signalled another candle snuffed from the world. He read the simple inscription:

_Sherlock Holmes_

_1978 – 2011_

_Consulting Detective_

John made sure that was all that was carved into the humble piece of granite. That was all Sherlock would want. Because those two simple words were all that was needed to describe the man. That was what he was and that is what he always will be. John _needed _people to remember him as the man who solved hundreds of Scotland Yard's most difficult cases singlehandedly even before they'd met. Not the man accused of stealing jewels, robbing banks and murder. Not the one everyone saw jump off a building to end his humiliation. The one that jumped off a building to save his friends and the people he called family. That was who Sherlock Holmes really was. That was who he'll be remembered as.

A long world-weary sigh escaped John's chapped lips, dry of dehydration. He ran his furry tongue over them to ease the sting, pulling his eyes from the grave to the glass bottle wrapped in brown paper he held weakly in his hand. John raised the bottle to his lips and took a long draught, spluttering slightly at its end. Whisky; it was harsh and bitter and burned its way down his throat but it got the job done faster than beer. After Sherlock had… John couldn't even bring himself to think of that day again. He'd fought too hard to keep the memory buried. The bottle was John's new best friend. It comforted him. Warmed him, helped him to forget the pain that racked his every dream and tortured his every sober moment. It was… better, he told himself. Without it, he would probably be in a room with padded walls by now.

He had his job in the clinic to feed his need, showing up to work only half sober and being as antisocial as he could manage without ruining any chance he had of keeping his job. He enjoyed working at the clinic. It was nice, quiet, calming. It kept him from following Sherlock. But he didn't even have that anymore. After one particularly bad morning, he came to work slightly more smashed than usually. He'd lost his temper at a lady who kept asking him to retest her for things he knew she didn't have and when the tests supported his diagnosis, she had insisted he was wrong and asked for a second opinion. Normally he would have just given her a referral to the bigger hospital a few kilometres away, but not that day. He screamed and called her names and even went so far as to throw a pair of scissors at her. That had been the last straw for Sarah.

Three months ago he lost his job. Two weeks ago he spent the last of his money. Yesterday he cried himself to sleep because, today, it is two years since Sherlock has been home.

John absently let his mind drift to Mrs Hudson. She truly was an amazing woman. Through all of John's problems, she never once complained. She just made them both a cup of tea and sat quietly while John either vented or brooded. He didn't understand. He'd missed three rent payments counting today and she still hadn't evicted him.

Why?

She could have a tenant that paid and didn't come barging through the door at four in the morning smelling of alcohol or, on more than one occasion, not come home at all. But still she kept him. He loved Mrs Hudson. She reminded him of the mother he once had. She had killed herself when John was twelve.

John took another mouthful of whisky, not choking this time, preferring to relish the burn.

Everything he'd ever loved had left him. His mother, his job, girlfriend after girlfriend… This thought brought him back to the reason he was here; the man in the ground without a daisy to his grave. John realised sadly that there were no flowers surrounding the headstone and, by the looks of it, hadn't been since the day of the funeral.

"You know something, Sherlock?" John slurred, his voice heavy with intoxication and exhaustion. "If you only taught me one thing, it was to look beyond the surface. You told me everything is never as it seems." He drank, almost two thirds through the bottle. "So that's what I did. I looked beyond the businesses and the happy kids and the police and you know what I saw?" John clumsily sat down, almost spilling the whisky. "I saw the truth. The world is rotten and I'm still living in it; in the filth and in the-the corruption but you!" He waved a finger accusingly at the grave. "You get to stay down there where it's safe! The filth doesn't touch you, Sherlock! But look at me! I'm covered in it! It's suffocating!" John's shoulders started to shake as unbidden tears streak down his cheeks. He knew he was just as rotten as everyone else. It burned like a fire in the pit of his stomach. He knew he wasn't good enough. _That _was the problem. "I can't do it anymore…" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of painkillers. "Sorry, Sherlock... I'm not as strong as you." John opened the bottle and upended a large portion of the tablets into his mouth, washing it down with whisky. He breathed in the fresh morning air but it tasted like blackened dirt. Everything he fought for with Sherlock, it meant nothing. No one cared whether two psychopaths that got off on playing detective ended up in the ground and, frankly, neither did John anymore.

The air in John's lungs felt stale. The vice around his chest grew tighter with every passing second. The world began to spin. John fell to the side, pills spilling over the grass and amber liquid drizzling from the neck of the fallen bottle. The colours, the lights and sounds, they all began to bleed into one.

But one sound broke through the volley of noises; a voice that he was so accustom to hearing but sounded so alien to him. It cried his name but John couldn't place its direction. His mind was so foggy, he couldn't string together a thought, couldn't connect the dots. He felt a warm hand on his flushed cheek, soft but calloused. Someone stepped into his field of vision but he couldn't make them out. So strange, they looked so familiar and yet… Black curls framed a blurry face. He heard them say his name again. A single word slipped John's lips as he drifted off into what he hoped would be a never ending rest; a word so small but said everything that needed to be said.

"Sherlock…"

**A/N**** : I probably should have started with a oneshot, huh? But this idea wouldn't leave me alone so now you have to put up with it =P. Any criticism welcome but please try to be constructive. It makes my life easier. I'll upload the next chapter in around, oh, I don't know! Depending on feedback, it could be up before the end of the day or it could never go up at all. Hey, look! More incentive for you to write to me!**

**Please? I get lonely…**

**Oh, P.S. If anyone finds the Easter egg in this story, you win… hell, I don't think you'll want to give requests to a novice but, yeah, that. I need the practice! Look for that Easter egg!**


	2. Chapter 2 : Light In The Darkness

**A/N ****: HOW DO I WORDS? Guys, seriously, over a hundred views since I went to bed? I know that's probably not much but, really? Anyhow, I want to thank the 2 people who favoritied and the 2 who followed but I want to give a HUGE thank you to the person who reviewed! Thanks so much guys, that means a lot! As for the rest of you quiet observers, please feel free to criticise till your heart's content. I promise I won't bite. So, here's the next chapter and I hope you like this one even though not much happens. Johnlock if you squint! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer ****: I don't own Sherlock. All credit goes to the BBC, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and their affiliates.**

**The Truth Beneath The Surface**

**Chapter 2 : Light In The Darkness**

The sound of nurses and patients and doctors and wheels on linoleum and blaring announcements filled the entire hospital. Coupled with the distinct smell of disinfectant that turned the air thick and heavy, one could simply pass out right there in the waiting room. Mrs Hudson, the kind old landlady of 221 Baker Street, paced along a row of chairs, ignoring peoples constant, and rather irritating, attempts to make her sit down and relax before she had a stroke. She refused to calm down until she'd seen that her young friend was still breathing. She'd received the call some four hours ago that John had been brought in by a young man who stayed just long enough to give his name and Mrs Hudson's number before vanishing. She'd rushed straight to Saint Bart's, mad with worry, only to be told that his condition was too critical, that he wasn't allowed any visitors until they got him stable and there were no guaranties that she would be allowed in today.

She'd been told that he'd been brought in having mixed alcohol and painkillers. It didn't make any sense. John was a doctor; he knew what that would mean. Why would he go and try to kill himself after everything Sherlock had done to make sure they were both safe? She sighed, halting slightly in her pacing. She should have seen this coming. He had obviously been depressed since Sherlock had left. Mrs Hudson never believed for an instant that Sherlock was dead. He just wasn't the type to give up that easily especially since it would mean that maniac, Moriarty, would win. Sherlock hated to lose. He even hated to lose to John when they played darts and John's military training won out. There was also the promise he made. Sherlock didn't break the promises he made to family.

Mrs Hudson remembered that morning so clearly. It was the day Sherlock "died". He ran out of his room early in the morning. John hadn't been up yet but Mrs Hudson was busy fixing the boys a light tea. Sherlock hadn't eaten in two days and she was starting to worry. That boy was so thin. He never looked after himself. He walked over to her and bundled her into a hug. Then he'd whispered into her greying wiry hair, "_No matter what happens, Mrs Hudson, take care of John." _She'd tried to ask him what he was talking about but he finished with a simple but somehow reassuring promise. "_I'll be back. Not soon, but I promise, I'll be back." _So she did the best she could. Keeping a roof over John's head and food in his stomach but he was a grown man and a soldier. He wouldn't always listen to an old woman.

Now, standing in the hospital surrounded by the crush of people looking for loved ones or seeking treatment, she was scared. Scared for John's safety, scared of what would become of the flat should he not make it out of that bed but, above all, scared of what Sherlock would think. Would he think she'd failed to protect John? Would he think she didn't want to keep her promise? Would he hate her for that failure?

The thought made her stomach turn. Sherlock was a good man and family. She didn't want to lose any more family. Kids grown up and gone, some left the country, others the continent; that left just Mrs Hudson and her small block of flats, just Mrs Hudson and her two boys. That meant she would fight tooth and nail to keep her little family together.

A young man in a long white coat hurried toward her from the corridor. He called her name, snapping her from her reverie. "Are you Mrs Hudson?" He asked gently. She nodded. He made a short gesture to follow before ducking off back the way he came, Mrs Hudson on his heels. "Doctor Watson is currently resting comfortably." He spoke as he walked, "We had to pump his stomach and he still requires close attention but we think he'll be fine."

"You _think?" _Mrs Hudson asked incredulously. She wouldn't leave this hospital until she was certain her charge was in good health.

The doctor looked slightly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the very protective older woman. "We're just not sure whether his liver will be able to handle the amount of drugs in his system. A majority of them were already absorbed by his body before his stomach was pumped. If it starts to fail he'll be put on the transplant list but the wait could be anywhere from a few weeks to a few years."

Mrs Hudson was shocked into silence, trying to cope with this new information. The doctor stopped outside a white door that stretched from white floor to white ceiling and was set in the white wall. Everything was white, she noticed, so monotonous and… sterile. On the front of the door in black letters (the only not white thing beside the fire extinguisher on the wall) were the numbers 221. She couldn't help the small smile that flitter over her lips, only to vanish as soon as the door was pushed open. In the centre of the small room was a single bed containing one John Hamish Watson. Mrs Hudson took a sharp, shuddering breath, moving her hand to cover her mouth. John was dressed in the stock-standard hospital gown, wires and tubes snaking out its side connecting to various machines and monitors. His skin was pale and clammy, his cheeks flushed red and sunken in, black circles under his eyes. She'd seen the doctor at his best and worst through the last few years but this brought "worst" to a whole new level. He looked deathly, like a corpse with a pulse.

"John…" She walked to the edge of the bed, her shaking hands hovering over his body, not sure whether to touch him, afraid of what she would feel. The doctor guided her to a chair against the wall next to the door. She couldn't pry her eyes off of the ghostly figure occupying the single hospital bed, unmoving, unwaking. He said something about staying as long as she liked before leaving, closing the door behind him.

Mrs Hudson sat in complete silence, unable to form word or thought. She just stared until she wept. The tears flowed down her face in a mixture of grief, exhaustion and fear. She couldn't nor would she try to stop them. They continued their silent torrent until her stinging red eyes shut against the world and she drifted off into the welcoming abyss.

...

A slight shuffling and a small sob reached Mrs Hudson's ears, pulling her out of the darkness. She didn't move in the chair but let her eyes open lethargically. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkened room, straining her ears to try and locate the sound but it was gone. The first thing she noticed was that someone had draped a blanket across her legs. The second was the dark figure silhouetted against the window. Mrs Hudson didn't say anything; just watched. She could make out the white coat, stereotypical of a doctor or nurse, and blonde hair slicked back on the top of the man's head. His back was drawn and pensive, his shoulders shaking. He started talking again.

"I'm sorry, John." Mrs Hudson would recognise those deep baritones anywhere. She stayed silent, revelling in the familiarness she'd waited so long to hear. "I didn't see what you were doing." He continued, "If I had, you wouldn't be lying in this bed. I… Just wake up. Please. I'll come home if you get out of this bed. I promise, just… wake up." The man bent down and ran his lips across John's knuckles. He straightened and turned for the door, keeping his back to Mrs Hudson.

"Thank you, Doctor Holmes." She said as his hand closed around the doorknob. He froze and turned to the woman, his face catching the light just enough for her to see how he managed to sneak into the hospital. Along with the dyed hair, he wore a long prosthetic nose, not dissimilar in shape to a hawk's beak, and a pair of glasses that made his eyes appear a honey gold colour and much too big for his face.

He smiled weakly at her and said, "I always keep promises to family." ,before leaving the room closing the door with a quiet click. Mrs Hudson closed her eyes, a smile playing on her lips, content in the knowledge that, as soon as John opened his eyes (and he would open his eyes), there would be another creature inhabiting Baker Street; back where he belonged.

**A/N**** : How was that? Did I do good? PLEASE tell me what you think! If I don't know I can't make it better! By the way, has anyone spotted the Easter egg yet? It shouldn't take more than a few chapters to figure it out but if you can't get it by the time I finnish, I'll just tell you. PLEASE FIGURE IT OUT BEFORE THEN! Just telling you won't be fun... ;_; Don't know when the next chapter will be up but soon I suppose. **

**For now, Bye Bye!**

**P.S. R&R pretty please?**


	3. Chapter 3 : The Baker Street Irregulars

**A/N : ****Hello! Sorry this chapter took a little longer but I will try to update more regularly from now on. I was skiing down the side of a mountain and my laptop decided it didn't like my USB so I couldn't finish editing this chapter. But it's done now so have a look!**

**I want to thank my newest follower and reviewer, ****_idjits! _****Thank you for your kind words, they are greatly appreciated!**

**PLEASE stop being silent observers! I'm not mean guys! I accept all criticism, good and bad. Your reviews are helpful so please. More.**

**The Truth Beneath The Surface**

**Chapter 3 : The Baker Street Irregulars **

Awareness slowly came back to John; a feeling at his back, warmth on his face, a splitting headache. His first thoughts were '_It didn't work…' _His mouth felt dry and even more fury then it had at the grave, almost like he hadn't had a drink in days. His throat felt impossibly sore, like he'd recently lost his breakfast. Overall, he felt like he'd had a rather eventful night at the pub. Again. He groaned and clapped a hand to his head. He heard someone call his name, felt a hand on his shoulder. John opened his eyes. After a few minutes of blinking, he found the concerned face of Mrs Hudson staring down at him. He opened his mouth to speak but only a small croak passed his lips.

"Don't even try it." she commanded. John let a small smile pull at the edge of his lips. Mrs Hudson could be so motherly and so endearing. That thought fled Johns mind when a hand whipped across his cheek. He gently touched the quickly reddening flesh, looking up shocked. Mrs Hudson had tears streaming down her face. "Two weeks," she sobbed, "You've been lying in that bed two weeks. If you hadn't…" her sentence trailed off and she let it hang in the air for a while. "What on earth were you thinking?" John's face dropped into apology with a clear mix of depression and regret. Mrs Hudson sighed tiredly before pushing the call button. A nurse poked her head through the door mere seconds later. Without saying a word, she vanished and was replaced by a doctor and an intern.

"Nice to see you're awake, Doctor Watson. My name's James Arthurs. Call me Jim." John didn't particularly trust _anyone _named Jim. Not after… He extended a hand toward John who shook it as strongly as he could manage. His limbs felt like lead. "How are you feeling?" The obligatory check-up questions.

John frowned slightly, coughing to clear his throat. He winced at the pain of the raw flesh. "Feel like I slept for two weeks and spent the night at the pub. As I should, I expect." Jim smiled. John's voice was so rough and dry, he sounded like he'd just run three marathons in blistering wind in the middle of a desert during summer.

"I'll have the nurses bring in some ice water for you." He said scribbling down something on John's chart. "You're out of the woods now, John. There's very little chance of liver failure this late after the incident. You can go home in a couple of days." John nodded thankfully. The doctor turned for the door, stopping on his way out and turning back to him. "Oh, and you might want to go dry from now on, okay?" John frowned as the doctor left. At that moment he decided he had a permanent dislike for anyone named 'Jim'.

A couple of days turned out to be nearly a week. At first it was because they wanted to keep John in for observation. Then they wanted to run his blood work again. Then a psychological evaluation followed by three days of suicide watch before they let him return home. Even before that they sent an intern to Baker Street to clear out all the liquor and unnecessary medications. The only pills allowed in the flat now were the antidepressants John had been prescribed. Mrs Hudson, ever watchful, hadn't left John alone since the "accident". The nurses had insisted she get some sleep so they moved another bed into John's room. He didn't mind, of course. He liked Mrs Hudson, even if she was a little over protective.

The day came when they were sent home which just so happened to be the eight day anniversary of John's sobriety. Mrs Hudson was bouncing around like a proud mother hen and the closer they got to Baker Street, the more cheerful she became. It certainly piqued John's interest. _What had her so riled up? _When they arrived the building looked exactly the same; the small flight of steps to the big black painted door with brass letters and knocker. It had only been a few weeks but it felt so much longer. Mrs Hudson hurriedly opened the door and waved John inside. He walked slowly, still not entirely healed. Doctor Jim had said that his years of alcohol abuse had caused severe muscle deterioration and he'd need to go into therapy, not that John could afford it right now. The doctor told John he'd need to go back to using his cane for a while. God, John hated that thing. It took him several minutes to make it up the stairs, having to stop to catch his breath. He felt stupid and weak. He felt _helpless. _That was the one thing his soldiers pride kept him from becoming. He wouldn't tell anyone, he wouldn't ask for help and certainly, he would make it up those bloody stairs. He pushed open the door at the top, Mrs Hudson still jittering away behind him, and stumbled into the apartment, leaning heavily on the cane to keep himself upright.

He looked around, a small smile on his face. _Still the same. _Same ugly wallpaper, same old leather chairs, same hideous paintings, same bullet holes in the wall, same horrible, old, musty-smelling… the thought dribbled out of John's mind. His eyes had come to rest on the back of the lounge and, there, hanging over the arm of the chair, was a mop of black curly hair. John froze; the finer details of that day at the grave flooding the forefront of his memory. His mouth gaped, his mind blanked. There was a dead man in his flat. The cane fell from his limp fingers. It clattered loudly to the floor. The man bolted to his feet at the noise. John's eyes were glued to his face and his to John's; those impossibly high cheekbones, framing crystal blue eyes, disappearing into black hair. It couldn't be him. It wasn't possible. He was exactly the same with the exception of a few scars on his otherwise flawless pale skin.

"John…" he said slowly, "It's good to see you again." He walked forward, arms outstretched. John did the one thing he wasn't expecting. He swung a wild punch, landing it straight across Sherlock's jaw. The taller man tumbled to the floor, caught off guard by the sudden assault. John was shaking from head to toe, the last of his energy spent on coldcocking his supposedly dead friend. Mrs Hudson, noticing John's state, helped the man to the couch. Sherlock lifted himself from the floor and straightened his clothes. "No, you needn't help me. I'm fine, thank you, Mrs Hudson." He whined melodramatically.

She looked over from the couch where she was making sure John was all right to say, "Well, you did deserve it, Sherlock." He looked genuinely affronted by the accusation. "You didn't think he'd react _well _after you abandoned him for two years, did you? I'd have given you a knock myself if I didn't think I'd break my hand!" Sherlock made a mental note to be wary of an upset Mrs Hudson. He snatched up the cane and rounded the couch to where John was sitting. His face was white with exhaustion. Sherlock was surprised they let him out of the hospital in that state. "Sherlock, would you help John up to bed? I don't think he'll be doing much else today." Sherlock nodded and moved to slip and arm around John's waist to help him stand. John shoved him away.

"I'm fine!" he yelled, reaching for his cane. Sherlock snatched it off the couch and held it out of his range. "Give it to me!"

"You're in no state to go anywhere by yourself, John. You almost collapsed coming up the-"

"I don't need your help!" John screamed, cutting Sherlock off midsentence. His cheeks burned red with indignation. Sherlock stared wide-eyed at his companion; then handed him his cane. John used it to leaver himself off the couch and started to walk, rather unsteadily, to the foot of the stairs leading up to his room. He looked up the steep incline, took a deep breath and put his foot on the first step. Sherlock, who had been watching the whole trek, had finally lost the last of his patience with John's pride. He wouldn't make it up the first five stairs and they both knew it. Sherlock ran forward, sweeping the cane out from John's hands and lifting the man up over his should in one swift move. John started cursing and kicking as he vaulted the stairs in record time. Sherlock pushed open the door to John's rooms, the smaller of the two, and lowered him onto the bed, instantly noticing the loss of contact. Sherlock rested the cane against the bedside table and turned back to John.

"Get changed and get into bed." It was a command not a request. A scowl formed on John's features. "If you _dare _try and come down those stairs without the aid of either myself or Mrs Hudson, I will chain you to that bed until you are properly healed. Is that clear?" The scowl deepened. John hated being given orders. He'd put up with it before, but only from Sherlock. Now? He wasn't having any of it. The last time he listened to Sherlock, he'd jumped off a building. But Sherlock _was _a genius after all. He produced a small key from the pocket of his coat and held it in front of John's eyes. They widened. Sherlock stepped out onto the stairs, closing and locking the door behind him. John banged and cursed, screaming to be let out. Then there was the gentle squeak of springs to signal that John had collapsed onto the bed. Smugly satisfied he returned down the stairs. The silence lasted a few snatch moments before John started thumping on the floorboards of his room. The sound resonated down to the sitting room where Sherlock stood, looking helplessly at the ceiling.

John wasn't going to let him off easy.

**A/N : ****R&R plox?**


	4. Chapter 4 : The Blanched Soldier

**A/N : ****Hi Guys! I have to give a shout out to all the lovely people who reviewed the last chapter. THANK YOU SO MUCH I LOVE YOU GUYS JUST OLEFHSLDGIHFEI! Please keep reviewing, it's very much appreciated. Okay, firstly I have to apologise because these chapters seem to be getting progressively longer and secondly I have to warn you. This chapter contains some light Johnlock. It's really just Sherlock perving on John because he's a creepy b*****d but you know, I don't want people to get offended. So yes that's there. ANYWAY!**

**On with the show!**

**Disclaimer : ****YES! Wait, no….**

**The Truth Beneath The Surface**

**Chapter 4 : The Blanched Soldier**

John's fist was starting to bruise. He could feel it. He'd been banging on the floor for a good thirty minutes and Sherlock hadn't done a thing. _Have to get out, _his mind screamed at him. He couldn't stay here. It was too small, too confined. John felt trapped. He felt alone. He had to get out of this nightmare. Back to reality where he wasn't locked in a tiny room and it wasn't a dead man who'd put him there. He just wanted to wake back up in the hospital. A quiet sob forced its way past John's lips. _Calm down, _he told himself, _this is nothing like that cage. You can get out. You can make it. You just need to think. _John's head snapped about looking for a route, anything. He just couldn't stay there.

…

Sherlock lay on his back, relishing in the familiar scent and feel of the lounge. He kept his eyes closed, his hands clapped together and the tips of his fingers pressed to his lips, just as he always did when he was thinking. But this time he wasn't thinking, he was listening. Listening to the frantic yet rhythmic banging that came from John's room.

Thump-thump-thump.

Thump-thump-thump.

Thump-thump-thump.

It was almost as if he were trying to get away from something. The thought lingered briefly in Sherlock's mind. _But what would he be running from? Me, perhaps? _The though seemed unlikely. John was angry at him but not to the point that he would want to leave. Sherlock could see it, just like always. Despite his rage and humiliation at Sherlock's actions John was clearly glad that he was back. Sherlock tutted quietly, frustrated at his inability to discover the cause for John's upset. But his mind was reeling too much for him to be able to truly focus on the problem.

He was lying on the lounge in 221b Baker Street. He was finally home; home with John. He was just sad that John wasn't as happy to see him. A knot formed in his stomach as he rubbed his bruised jaw. The force of John's punch had surprised Sherlock. The last time John had punched him it hadn't been nearly as hard, nearly as demonstrative. Sherlock shifted in discomfort as the knot grew slightly. He didn't know what that feeling was. It was… new. Was it guilt? No, after his years away he had become very accustom to that feeling. Sadness, then. No, still not right. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he silently berated himself. He was Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't meant to have feelings. They made him weak, pliable and most importantly, they clouded his judgement. They made him seem… average. He didn't do average; especially not in front of John. He sighed contentedly as he recalled all the times John had praised him for making a relatively simple deduction. He got that gleam in his eye, like a mixture of pride and respect. It made Sherlock happy, exceedingly so. He shook himself and sat up with a small sigh. What had changed? He knew he'd felt lost while he was away. He felt alone.

Those wretched feeling again!

How did normal people stand it? Always _feeling. _It would drive him mad. He was surprised he had lasted those two years. It had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Every day his insides twisted with the need to go home but his mind told him to stay away. He took on case after case, hoping to rid himself of the river of longing that flowed through his consciousness.

Still it persisted.

He fought himself until a realisation had hit him. It had been two years to the day that he had thrown himself from the roof of St Bart's. Two years since he saw the soldier cry at his grave.

He couldn't help it. He needed to be home that day. He caught a cab into London and arrived at Baker Street just in time to see John getting into his own. Sherlock had told his driver to follow John. He looked suspicious but, nonetheless, complied. Sherlock remembered his heart leaping into his throat when he realised where they were headed. Sherlock jumped out of the cab a few blocks from the cemetery, paid the cabbie and ran. Swerving through side streets and back alleys he managed to gain a lead in the race. He dashed through the gates, winding down paths until he reached the headstone that bore his name.

It was an oddly unsettling feeling to stare at his grave. It made him feel somehow hollow. _Everyone I ever cared about thinks I'm dead. _He thought dryly. His eyes grazed the inscription with a small smile at his lips. _Consulting Detective. _John knew him so well. That was who he was, the freak that you came to when you needed him. Footsteps filled the air, shattering Sherlock's quiet regard. He dashed behind a cluster of trees within earshot of the grave. A feeling of nostalgia washed over him as he recalled standing in that exact spot as his friend buried an empty casket. Sherlock's heart roared as he saw John making his way up the path. His eyes widened involuntarily as he noticed the slight sway in John's step and the familiar shape of the paper bag in his hand.

Sherlock watched unblinking, completely paralysed by what he saw, as John stood in front of the grave starring at it; every now and then taking a swig from the bottle. What the hell had happened to John? He looked so small, so frail. The battle seasoned soldier that he knew was a far cry from this man; reeking of alcohol and barely able to stand. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair trying desperately to figure out what could have happened to turn Doctor John Watson into the ghost of a man standing in front of him. Had his newest girlfriend broken up with him? No, this was too extreme for that. Sherlock had seen enough of John's breakups to know. Had Mrs Hudson kicked him out? She wouldn't do that, bless her soul. She had said she'd look after him. Had someone he'd known died? It was possible but Sherlock read the obituaries every day and no one in John's family had-

Oh. Sherlock slumped against the tree as the realisation slammed into him with the force of a sledge hammer. It was Sherlock. That was what had happened. But that was two years ago. Surely John hadn't been… But the amount of muscle deterioration would suggest otherwise. Sherlock cringed at the thought that the reason for John's poor state was him. He had left to keep him safe, not so that he could turn into that shell. It made Sherlock sick to his stomach.

"You know something, Sherlock?" John slurred, his voice snapping Sherlock's attention back to his friend. John's voice was so heavy with alcohol it was difficult to make out the words but he managed. "If you only taught me one thing, it was to look beyond the surface. You told me everything is never as it seems." He drank. Sherlock smiled lightly. He remembered telling John that. He'd told him it was one of life's most important lessons. "So that's what I did. I looked beyond the businesses and the happy kids and the police and you know what I saw?" John practically collapsed to the floor, almost over correcting the bottle. His back was to Sherlock, making it harder to hear but he still caught every word. "I saw the truth. The world is rotten and I'm still living in it; in the filth and in the-the corruption but you!" Sherlock watched in dismay as John poured out his heart to the small headstone. What he was saying, it wasn't right. John Watson was happy and cheerful, not grim and vain. "You get to stay down there where it's safe! The filth doesn't touch you, Sherlock! But look at me! I'm covered in it! It's suffocating!" Sherlock stared as John's shoulders quaked. What was he saying? It didn't make sense. John was bright, blithesome, he inspired those around him. There wasn't a spec of filth on him. What did he think was there that no one else could see? "I can't do it anymore…" Sherlock went rigid. "Sorry, Sherlock... I'm not as strong as you." As he watched John shifted and took another swig of liquor. Sherlock watched in perplexed silence as John stared off into the distance. His mind whirled trying to understand what John had meant. It just didn't sit with the detective. None of this did. John fell sideways onto the grass.

"John!" Sherlock had called, barrelling across the grass, not caring if he'd been seen or not anymore. He reached the doctors side and then he saw them. The bottle of pills spilled over the grave and the alcohol sloshing onto the ground. "John?" he'd cried again. He was lying on his back, eyes half open and unfocused; his cheeks flushed a brilliant red. Sherlock checked his pulse. It was so slow it barely registered under the detectives touch. Sherlock had rested a hand on John's cheek. "John, what have you done?" he had scooped the man into his arms. He weighed so little it was terrifying. He ran out onto the street and hailed a cab, demanding St Bart's. The man took one look at John and sped off into the street, ignoring traffic lights where he could. He had promised to pay for the man's traffic tickets.

Sherlock hauled John into the emergency department shouting for a doctor. They rolled John away on a stretcher checking his vitals. The doctors asked dozens of questions and Sherlock answered as best he could, having very limited knowledge of John's personal life. That awareness caused Sherlock pain but he couldn't figure out why that was. He left the doctor with Mrs Hudson's number and vanished before they could trap him once again.

Sherlock couldn't understand why John did it. It couldn't have been because of him. That made less sense than Anderson being chief forensic examiner. Perhaps something else had happened while he was away. Or possibly something that happened before they'd met and had resurfaced in John's mind? It didn't really matter because he was home now and John was safe. Sherlock sighed, shutting his eyes and once again listening to the thumping.

Silence.

He snapped bolt upright. It stopped. The thumping stopped. When had it stopped? Why had he not noticed? Had John given up and gone to bed? No, no, he wouldn't. He was a fighter, a soldier, rebellious to the end unless a commanding officer was involved and Sherlock was certain that was not how John perceived him. Sherlock leapt from the lounge and lunged up the stairs. He reached John's door and, knocking tentatively, called out.

"John?" he started, "Are you alright?" No reply. He knocked once more and listened. Sherlock's hearing was sharper than most peoples; another perk of his perceptive gift. Inside there was a gentle flapping but nothing else. Was he playing possum? Sherlock didn't buy it. John wouldn't sink to such lows, not when he'd wanted out so badly. Sherlock slid the key from his pocket and pushed open the door. His sharp eyes darted around the room, immediately informing him that he needn't attempt to call out. John's room was neat bordering on obsessive. An old habit from his army days, Sherlock guessed. The only things out of place were the empty bottles of various kinds of alcoholic beverages that littered the floor. The room was icy cold, sending a chill through Sherlock the second he stepped inside. The window at the other side of the room hung open.

Sherlock ran and almost threw himself out the opening. There was a fire escape leading up and down. Sherlock searched along the alley way below, seeing no signs of life. A clatter overhead had Sherlock darting up the ladder without a second thought. He reached the top and was about to call John a complete idiot when he froze still. Standing in the middle of the rooftop was a small ginger cat; at its feet was a broken vase and some spilled flowers. Sherlock cursed, scrambling down the ladder in record time. At the bottom he found himself with two options. To the left lay the main road, crowded with people, cars and animals. To the right lay a maze of alleys and side streets, empty of any decent life. Sherlock had no doubt which one John would choose. He bolted to the right, rounding the corner and pelting toward the next intersection.

What the hell was John thinking? He was weak enough as it was without running around in this weather. It was a bitting four degrees Celsius (39 degrees Fahrenheit) and by the looks of it would start pouring in about ten minutes. Sherlock paused at the intersection. Main road to the right, dead end full of rags to the left. Forward. He ran again and kept running. His breath coming out in wispy curls as he powered down the streets, only pausing to look into the backstreets for John. He ran out of the alley, coming onto the sidewalk of Broadberry Lane. He skidded to a halt, pedestrians slowing to look at the tall pale man who had just dashed at full speed out into the street. There was no way John could have gone any further than here in his present state. Then where was he? Sherlock mentally backpedalled, trying to find some hint of John in the maze of tunnels he had just traversed. Rain began pelting down from the sky with a horrendous force but Sherlock barely noticed as he fought to try and find the information he required. He came back to the first intersection. There was the main street and-

-the pile of rags.

Sherlock whipped around, startling a young woman who seemed to find him attractive, and shot back toward the dead end. How could he have been so stupid? Of course it wasn't rags, bloody sod! He powered down the passages in half his original time, now knowing where to look. He reached the hollow and dropped next to what he originally thought was a pile of rags. It was in fact a very shallow breathing John Watson. John's clothes were soaked through and he was shivering uncontrollably. Sherlock rolled him over, a sense of dread and déjà vu washing over him. Sherlock swallowed hard. John's skin was so pale he could have been dead; a blue tinge already present in his lips and fingers.

"Dear god…" he muttered to himself, wasting no time in gathering his flatmate into his arms and bounding back through the alley onto the main street and around to the front door of 221b. He hurtled up the stairs to the sitting room. _No time. _He thought. If Sherlock didn't act quickly, John could go into hypothermia. Sherlock kicked open the door to his bathroom, not wasting time scaling the stairs to John's. He lowered John onto the floor, wincing at the cool tiles and threw on the hot water. Sherlock hurriedly began pulling at John's clothes. They were drenched. If he stayed in them he would either freeze to death or catch pneumonia. He pulled off the thin jacket, the only extra layer John had put on in his haste to be out of the flat, his stiff limbs making it very difficult. Sherlock threw it at the laundry hamper in the corner, missing completely but not caring. He was too preoccupied. Sherlock ripped open the buttons of John's shirt as quickly as he could manage without ruining it. He stopped. His eyes fixed on John's chest. He had never seen it before but this was truly not what he had expected. Even with the muscular degeneration John's abdomen was still incredibly toned, a litter of light brown hair covered his chest and a trail of it ran from his navel into the waist band of his jeans. But that wasn't what caught Sherlock's attention. It was the scars. His entire torso was covered in scars; some from knives, some burns, and one very particular one from a bullet. It was just visible on his left shoulder under the sleave of his shirt. But all were around the same age; still pink and healing. Sherlock knew John was a soldier but this…

These scars were reminiscent of torture. Sherlock looked up into his friends face, trying to understand what he was seeing and to understand the pain that he must have gone through. Sherlock pulled the shirt off the rest of the way, revealing more scars down his arms, some of which looked self-inflicted. He unfastened John's belt, buttons and zipper in quick succession, sliding them over his legs. More scars. The bathroom had become full of steam in the time it took to get John down to his boxers which was as far as he was willing to go. He lifted the frail figure into the shower basin and under the streaming water. Sherlock watched, his eyes involuntarily tracking small droplets as they snaked over his chest, weaving their way down his patchwork flesh and pooling in his navel. His tongue flicked out unbidden. Another pearl of water caught his attention, continuing further down across John's soaked boxers, now clinging to his skin and leaving very little to the imagination. Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat. A shiver coursed through John, causing his hips to buck slightly. Sherlock gulped and snapped his neck to the side so fast he was sure he got whiplash. He looked back only when he had his breathing under control. The blue had left John's features but he was still shivering uncontrollably. _That'll have to do or the water bill will send us broke this month. _Sherlock reached in to turn the tap, recoiling in surprise. The water had turned cold. When had it turned cold? How long had they been standing in that room? It didn't matter. Sherlock threw the water off and hurriedly rubbed John down with a towel, hoping desperately that the friction would bring some heat back into John's body.

Sherlock carried his flatmate bridal style up the stairs and lowered him onto his bed. Sherlock ran to the small set of drawers, ripped open the one he deduced was for socks, pulled out two pairs, careful not to touch the gun concealed there, and returned to his friend. He slipped both pairs onto John's feet and turned back to grab a jumper. He stopped dead. _A jumper won't do anything. He's too cold. _Sherlock kicked off his shoes and removed his jacket, shirt and belt. Sherlock took a deep breath to calm his growing anxiety. Why was he anxious? No! Stop! No thinking! John needed him and his stupid mind was stopping him from helping. Sherlock gently turned John onto his side and crawled up behind him. He pulled the blankets up to their chins and wrapped himself around John. _This isn't so bad, _Sherlock thought. He enjoyed that feeling; the feeling of closeness, of skin touching skin, of his heart hammering in his chest. Why was it doing that? _Trying to warm up from being pressed against John's cold skin, _he rationalised. But Sherlock knew better. He pulled John harder against him. Feelings were wretched and vile. They could cost a person everything. But Sherlock never wanted to lose this feeling. It was joyous and sad, wanting and needing, giving and getting. It was everything Sherlock knew and more. But it was the one thing he knew he could never have.

"I think I love you, John Watson." Sherlock whispered into his ear. In unconscious response, John pushed himself into Sherlock. He gasped lightly at the cool touch and tightened his hold once more, his fingers splayed out on John's heaving chest. He relished the feel of the muscle moving beneath the skin. He felt at home, he felt-

-a scar.

The image of just what Sherlock's fingers touched came crashing back like a tidal wave. He loosened his grip, wanting to stop touching that dark part of John's life but refusing to let go completely. He looked at the man sleeping fitfully in his arms. The battle worn soldier.

"You are going to be the bane of my thoughts for some time." Sherlock grinned half-heartedly, settling in for the night, the knowledge that he would have to be gone when John woke weighing heavily on his mind.

**A/N : ****How was that? Good enough for the start of the Johnlock in this fic? I always though Sherlock would say it first but not while John could hear him. He's too stubborn for that. Anyway, any idea's on the easter egg yet? If you think you have it PM me or leave a comment. Acctually, don't worry about whether you have it or not. Just comment! Criticism is always welcome! Also if I made any mistakes please feel free to point them out. See you next chapter!**


	5. Chapter 5 : The Reminiscences of John Wa

**A/N : ****Oh god, I'm sorry! Please don't hate me! I had massive writer's block right near the end of this chapter and then I had school stuff and applications and I'M SORRY! But here's the new chapter so forgive me maybe? Anyway, comment, criticize, correct, whatever. **

**WARNING! : ****Very dark themes in this chapter. Mentions of rape, torture and murder. Apologies for the faint hearted. (Don't hate me for this?)**

**The Truth Beneath The Surface**

**Chapter 5 : The Reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D**

_Their bodies lay atop one another, flesh on flesh. Their breaths came in short, rapid gasps, hot and desperate. Mouths crashed against each other as they fought to be closer, needing to be more together than they knew would ever be possible but still longing to try. Tongues laced together in a contorting dance as hands trailed over skin sticky with sweat. He never wanted it to end, never wanted to be apart from the pure bliss that surrounded them. He moaned out his name sending a shiver down his spine. It was so perfect here. He opened his eyes to look into the face of the man below him, letting them trail over his gloriously dishevelled form. They laced down his chest, so perfect and heaving. As he watched, the flesh tore and ripped with burns and cuts. He screamed in pure agony, his face twisted with pain. Crimson coated his form and a bloody hole erupted in the man's shoulder. He scrambled to try and stop the bleeding as two figures appeared at his side, taking him under the arms and dragging him away. "John!"_

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, his breath rasping from his throat. His eyes darted madly around the room, briefly lost in the space between dreaming and waking. A contented sigh reached his ears, demanding his attention. Curled up to his side was the figure of a very familiar army doctor. Sherlock couldn't help his eyes roaming over John's face, noting every wrinkle and every curve, committing it to memory. He looked so peaceful, laying there in his sleep, as if all the evil in the world had slipped away. Sherlock let his hand trail from where it rested on his stomach to grip John's waist. He groaned quietly under the touch and Sherlock trailed his fingers along the skin. He relished that moment, being so close to John, feeling the warmth of his flesh. His hand came to rest over the scar on John's left shoulder, the one scar for which Sherlock knew the cause. As he felt the rough uneven skin images from his dream flooded back. They were all too vivid to be shaken and as Sherlock stared at the man by his side he couldn't help picturing the beaten form conjured by his imagination. The spell of the moment was broken.

"What have you done to me, John Watson?" he wondered aloud. The image wouldn't leave him; it wracked his mind with questions to which he could find no answers. What had happened in Afghanistan that John hadn't told him? Who had caused all those scars? Did they still live? Would it be considered a crime to rid the world of their filth? _Filth. _It had been the same word John had used to describe himself. He was wrong. The filth and vermin are the ones who take a man and twist and beat and break him until he's nothing but a ghost, a shell, a fragmented existence. _The filth are the ones that did this to John._

Sherlock gave a quiet grunt of displeasure. Unable to stand in the presence of John without seeing that brutalised form, he unwound himself from the sheets and made his way downstairs. Mrs Hudson was sitting in the kitchen, two cups of tea already made and sitting in front of her. She smiled at Sherlock and gestured to the seat opposite her. He fell into the chair and gulped back half the cup in one mouthful. Mrs Hudson watched him silently for a few moments as he stared down into his mug, trying to bleach that image from his memory.

"What's bothering you, dear?" she finally asked. "Is it because John wasn't happy to see you? He really was. He's just not ready to show it yet. You have to give him time to-"

"The scars." Sherlock said cutting her off. She looked at him, her face carefully blank.

"You knew he was in Afghanistan," she started slowly, "and that he was hurt but you didn't bother to read the report?" she sounded genuinely surprised by this fact; Sherlock equally so that Mrs Hudson knew about them all along. She knew Sherlock was the kind of man who liked to know everything about everyone and that he hadn't looked up John's report from Afghanistan meant one of two things:

1) That Sherlock thought he already knew all there was to know about the man and so deemed it unnecessary.

2) That Sherlock cared too much about John to invade his privacy by reading the report.

She highly suspected the latter.

"Mrs Hudson, that would require me to gain access to the government's data base and military records using not necessarily legal means." She leaned over the table conspiratorially, her face donning a mischievous smirk.

"And when has that stopped you before, Sherlock?" He smiled at his dutiful landlady as he rose from his chair.

"Thank you for the tea, Mrs Hudson."

"You're welcome, dear." She giggled as she watched him make his way to his room, his shoulders squared in a purposeful stride.

Sherlock threw aside discarded articles of clothing and loose sheets of paper from one crime file or another until he found his laptop. Or was it John's? Their things got mixed up so often it was hard to tell anymore. Sherlock dropped onto his bed taking a moment to gaze around the room and marvel at the fact that it was still just as chaotic and disorganised as he had left it. _John probably hasn't been in here since I left. _Sherlock shook himself and cracked the laptop, wanting to get his mind on other things, though these would hardly be more pleasant. He opened the website that would link him to the military database. A password verification window popped up on the screen. Sherlock typed in Mycroft's ID and stared for a few moments at the password box. He typed in the same thing Mycroft always used as his password.

_Lestrade. _

The window opened and gave a ding of approval. _Ah, brother, so predictable. _Sherlock typed John's name into the search bar. It came back with 17 results. Sherlock opened the first one and read through it quickly.

_The report of Captain Peter McConway on the events of October 21 2006_

_Major Allen Barring and I were ordered to escort Doctor John Watson onto the front lines to tend the wounded and assist in the retrieval of any survivors. Watson spotted a man down close to the enemy line. We approached to see that she had stepped on a landmine. It was Major Suzan Adams. She was severely injured. One of her arms was gone up to above the elbow and her leg was completely missing. She had what looked like second to third degree burns covering a majority of her torso and was barely conscious. Watson tried to stop the bleeding as Barring and I kept watch. Adams went into cardiac arrest. Watson started compressions. As he worked, Taliban troops managed to sneak up on us from the east and started firing. We ordered Watson to fall back and made a retreat. We were about two hundred metres away from Adams body when we heard a cry and turned to see the Taliban surrounding Watson. We fired but they had already started dragging him away. It was two against twelve. We continued our retreat. _

Anger pooled in Sherlock's stomach. If those men hadn't fallen back without John, he wouldn't have been shot. He wouldn't have been taken by the Taliban. He wouldn't-

The realisation hit Sherlock hard. _John had been a prisoner of war. _So then the scars were… He cringed inwardly. That went against everything listed in the Geneva Conventions and more. How could they have let that happen? How could they have let someone take John while they ran away to save their own hides? How could the British government let that go without taking action? How could those men sleep at night knowing what they did to an innocent man? It was more than just despicable. It was inhuman. Sherlock stabbed the back button, his skin still crawling as his mind reeled at what had happed to the man asleep upstairs. He looked at the other search results. The second was by Major Allen Barring. Sherlock guessed it would be more or less the same as his colleagues; just as abysmal in its failure in the line of duty. The next was written by-

-_John H. Watson, M.D._

Sherlock's heart sped up and his breath caught in his throat as he opened the report.

_The report of John H. Watson, M.D. on the events of October 21 2006 – February 15 2007_

_I was stationed in the field tending the wounded. Captain Peter McConway and Major Allen Barring were stationed to keep a watch while I worked. It was around midday when I spotted Major Suzan Adams by the enemy lines. When we approach I saw she had a severed right arm and leg, the wound sights already cauterized, and third and fourth degree burns covered her abdominal and chest area. I thought it unlikely she would survive with that degree of injury but I tried anyway. I applied gauze to the leg and arm to attempt to stop the remaining bleeding and try to fend off infection if she did survive. By the time I started dressing her burns she fell into cardiac arrest. I started CPR just as the Taliban troop started bearing down on our position. McConway and Barring started to fall back ordering me to follow but I didn't want to give up on Adams. I stayed and kept up CPR. I felt a bullet pierce my left shoulder, shattering the scapula. I screamed and fell to the floor. When I next opened my eyes I was surrounded by Taliban troops. They grabbed me by the arms and dragged me away. I was in too much pain to fight back. _

_Somewhere along the way I lost consciousness. When I woke I was in agony. I was being held down by three men while a fourth tried to cut the bullet from my shoulder with a small knife. They weren't wasting resources on me; no aesthetic, no proper surgical equipment. I heard one of them shout that they had it before darkness engulfed my vision again. I guessed it was maybe four to five hours until I opened my eyes though it was hard to tell. The room I was in had no windows, only small light globes hanging from the ceiling. The room was roughly five metres by three with a three metre ceiling. The door was bolted. There were other people in the room before me. A young boy sat in the corner, his legs pulled to his chest, staring up at me expectantly. I sat down by him and asked his name. He told me it was Aleksey. He wouldn't say much, just that his dad use to be in that room but the soldiers took him and he never came back. _

_ Some twelve hours later the Taliban troops returned. They took me under the arms and dragged me from the room, covering my face with a hessian sack. I recall taking a left, two rights and a left to reach the room I became so familiar with. It was smaller even than my cell, comparable in size to a cheap hotel room. They pushed me into a chair and chained my arms and legs down. Standing at the other end of the room was a tall Afghani woman. I might have called her beautiful if she wasn't mulling over a collection of knives and spiked gloves. She asked questions, I stayed silent. She started with simple beatings; fists, boots, the occasional metal bat. After about three days of this, they got more creative; knives, cigarettes, cattle prods. The pain was excruciation but I keep my mouth shut. This went on for several weeks then they tried something new. They warned me that if I didn't cooperate, bad things would happen. I spat in her eye. A wicked grin split across her face then and she shouted something I didn't understand. Then two men hauled Aleksey in from the corridor. They chained him into a chair opposite me and the woman picked up one of her ever-present knives. She suggested I start talking. I told her I wouldn't say anything. So she cut out Aleksey's tongue and said "Neither will he,"_

_Aleksey bled to death in that chair, staring at me while she laughed and I fought to get free. He was just a kid. I said some things that they apparently found distasteful so they threw me into another room. Smaller still, this one was more reminiscent of a coffin than anything else. It was maybe a metre squared and equally as high with no windows or air vents, just the cracks around the small door. They would leave me there for days at a time without disturbing me and when they did come, it was for more interrogation. They fed me before they dragged me to that room, enough to keep me alive and no more. They once left me for close to two weeks. When they came I thought it was for another round in the room but I was surprised to see the woman when the door opened. She covered my mouth in a cloth and I tried to fight but I was too weak from hunger. The rag was soaked in chloroform. I lost consciousness again. When I opened my eyes she had removed my clothes from the waist down and she was on top of me._

_She raped me._

Sherlock dropped the laptop and ran to the bathroom. He fell to his knees and retched into the porcelain basin, the little food he'd eaten recently abandoning him. Those three words echoed through his mind.

_She raped me._

Sherlock didn't know why but he felt sick to his stomach. The thought of someone doing that to John… A silent tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek. He wiped at it angrily. He was Sherlock Holmes, damn it! He didn't have feeling and he certainly didn't show them!

But John was the exception. He will always be the exception. John made Sherlock feel. Better still, he made Sherlock _want_ to feel. He took a shaky breath and pulled himself to his feet. When he exited his room he found Mrs Hudson already gone, the mugs cleaned and put away. Sherlock smiled to himself. _Not our housekeeper, _he thought as he started up the stairs. John still lay in the bed, eyes closed, a slight pallor to his skin. Sherlock looked down at him, the story behind the scars still beating through his brain.

But it didn't matter.

It was the past. It couldn't be changed so it didn't matter. It still haunted John's present, he still though himself covered in filth but all Sherlock saw was the man who lived with him in Baker Street, the man who risked his life to save him, the man who cared, _truly cared, _whether Sherlock took care of himself. This was John Watson.

This was his John.

The lump of covers stirred slightly and a pained groan sounded through the room. John rolled lazily onto his side, his eyes fluttering open and fixing on Sherlock. They stared at each other, time seemed to stop until a smile split across John's tired face.

"You prat…"

**A/N : ****Again, so so so very sorry. I'll try to have the next one up on time but I have to study for a few tests next week so no promises! Also, I'm estimating about 2-3 more chapters for this fic and then I was thinking of trying a superwholock one or maybe some destiel. What do you guys think? Just to let you know, I'll be at the Hyde Park gathering in November in Sydney too so if you're going give me a shout out!**

**REMEMBER : comment, criticize and correct anything that's wrong. Thanks!**


	6. Chapter 6 : A Dawning Light

**A/N : ****Hello! Here's the new chapter. Sorry it's a little short but a lot happens in it so… Anyway, enjoy!**

**The Truth Beneath The Surface**

**Chapter 6 : A Dawning Light**

John sat in his usual chair, twiddling his thumbs and looking shamefully around the flat at the mess created during his brief stays. Empty bottles of various forms of alcohol littered almost every flat surface, dressing gowns and clothes throw about and the odd teacup that smelled as though tea hadn't been high on its list of occupants. Sherlock looked as though he barely noticed but they both knew better. The consulting detective was pottering about busily in the kitchen fixing them both a cuppa. He was just as hyper-aware as always; keeping half his attention on the task at hand and half on John. Every now and then he would look over to see John's eyes dart away from him. John was keeping equal watch on Sherlock. His gaze had a strange feel to it. It wasn't one of quiet vigil or silent observation. It had a feeling of desperation clinging to its edges; as though if he stopped looking, Sherlock would vanish once more. But he would never look when Sherlock looked. _Interesting. _

Sherlock brought the tea over to John who accepted it with a muttered 'thank you'. He dropped into his old chair and gave John a once over. His face was still ashen, his hands still trembling and he still wore an excessive amount of layers for the weather but at least he hadn't punched him yet. Sherlock couldn't help but think this is what John must have looked like when that woman had entered his cage; tired, weak, an easy target. Sherlock mentally shook himself. He couldn't think about that now. Not when John was here, healthy and alive. Well, not quite healthy but he was getting there and Sherlock was grateful for that. He stared at his blogger, taking the occasional sip from his tea as John did from his. He watched John's lips, red and wet from the drink. Sherlock wondered what it would be like to taste those lips, to have them pressed against his own, to feel their warmth. John's tongue ran slowly across the bottom rim removing the droplets of tea that had settled there. Sherlock's eyes tracked its movements. He could tell his pupils had dilated, could feel the sweat on his brow, the lump in his throat. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to seize those lips, to claim them and make them his. He wanted to be the only one that touched them, to ever touch them.

The words from John's report sliced through the fantasy that had started to form in Sherlock's mind. He remembered that someone else had touched those beautiful, red lips. Sherlock knew that she wasn't the only one, he had met dozens of John's girlfriends, but she had been the only one that John hadn't wanted, the only one that John had refused but had still taken them. Sherlock suddenly wondered if he would be the second that John refused. His chest grew tight then, painfully so.

"John," Sherlock croaked. He coughed a few times to clear his throat before he continued. "John, please look at me," the doctor looked up slowly, his eyes full of fear and raw vulnerability. "I… I read the report from Afghanistan," the mere mention of the horrid document made Sherlock feel ill. John stopped his cup which was centimetres from his mouth and replaced it in its saucer, lowering it almost lethargically to the coffee table. He didn't look upset or surprised. He had a strange mixture of emotion on his face, the most prominent of which, resignation.

"I thought you'd done it the moment you met me and chosen not to say anything," he chuckled to himself. ",but you never looked it up. I should have known,"

"John, I-"

"You probably think I'm disgusting now, don't you? Just another one of the broken people that wander over this planet. Dull to you, right? Just another piece of filth,"

"John, you're not-"

"Of course I am! To the world's only consulting detective, how could I be anything but? I'm just another in a long line of sexual assaults too uninteresting for the Reichenbach Hero! I'm a nobody! A-"

John's sentence was cut off by Sherlock's lips. He didn't know what to do. John thought himself unimportant and this was the only way he knew how to make him understand. He needed John to understand. He was the centre of Sherlock's world. He was his everything. John gasped and froze, stunned stiff by the sudden assault, but when Sherlock made to pull away, he found two hands on the side of his head drawing him closer. John's lips moved against his, needy, desperate, gulping him in like air. Sherlock ran his tongue along those lips that he'd dreamed of. John shivered and arched into the detective, their mouths never leaving each other. Sherlock's pushed into John's open mouth, tongues wrapping around each other. Sherlock needed this, wanted this. He pulled away slightly, pressing his forehead into John's. He looked into the doctor's misted, lust-filled eyes.

"You are _my _somebody, John Watson," His eyes drifted closed, tears sliding from the corners. He pulled Sherlock down to him again, the kiss much more gentle, with much more meaning. He didn't believe his senses, couldn't. He thought he must still be asleep upstairs. He thought that none of it could possibly be real. But the instant that he felt the other body pull away from him he knew it was; incredibly, painfully real. He opened his eyes as the end of that familiar long coat disappeared out the door and it closed behind him.

John stayed where he was, panting for the breath that Sherlock had taken away.

**A/N : ****Hello, me again! Just wanted to say that the next chapter will be the last chapter of this little babble so I hope you enjoyed it. Also, NO ONE'S TRIED MY EASTER EGG! It's not that hard is it? Because the next chapter is the last one, I'll give you a hint. It's not in the story itself but in the chapter titles. That should make it a bit easier.**

**Remember the five Cs of fanfiction reading! Comment, correct, criticise, contribute, and comment!**

**See you later!**


	7. Chapter 7 : In Quest of a Solution

**A/N: ****AHHHHHH! I'M SO SO VERY SORRY! I know I said it would be up three Moday's ago but I forgot I was going on holidays with my family and I didn't have access to a computer! But it's done now and this is the very sappy overly dramatic ending to my first fanfic. Enjoy and don't judge me!**

**The Truth Beneath The Surface**

**Chapter 7 : In Quest of a Solution**

Rain poured from the quickly darkening sky, drenching Sherlock, but he didn't even come close to noticing. He had set his mind adrift, something that he could seldom manage, to remove the temptation to pick apart his own actions. He couldn't bear it. He had let his impulses take control and now most likely lost the closest thing to a friend he had ever had. The only friend he would ever have. The realization was agonizing at best. The cold stone at his back stung his skin, the damp ground soaking his trousers. Thunder roared overhead. Sherlock's eyes opened just enough to take in the familiar line of trees. He had stood there twice now and watched his blogger pour his heart and soul into an empty grave. Twice now he had been helpless to save John from himself. Why? Why? _Why? _He didn't understand. Sherlock was in control of his emotions. It was something he prided himself on. So why had he done it? Why had he put his lips to John's? Sherlock absently ran a thumb over his bottom lip, remembering the taste, the feel. He closed his eyes and immersed himself in the memory; the brush of skin, the feel of John's hands fighting to keep Sherlock close, the salty sting of the tears that stained the doctor's face. He found something else in the memory this time, something he hadn't the other hundred times he'd replayed it. _Happiness. _He didn't feel the regret, the foreboding and self-loathing. He simply felt happy. He felt at home.

Sherlock turned his head to the sky, feeling the trickles of rain weaving over his sharp features. He wanted John. Wanted him there with him, if only so he could explain. John would think that Sherlock was playing some kind of trick on him, an experiment. But it wasn't true. Sherlock knew, deep down, just what it was. He had said 'think' before, but know he was sure.

"I'm in love with you, John Watson," Sherlock laid his confession to the world, open for God himself to hear. But Sherlock knew nobody was listening so he said it again. And again. And again and again. He said it until he felt the fresh rain mix with a saltier substance. He said it until his throat grew hoarse and his cheeks sore from smiling. He said it until he was absolutely sure it was the truth. It was the truth he'd been hiding; from the world and from himself. "I'm in love with you, John Watson…"

"Well, that's good," Sherlock leapt off the ground. Standing in front of the grave to which he'd just had his back was the army doctor; soaked to the bone, cane forgotten and barely on his feet. ",because I was hoping you'd go to dinner with me,"

"John… I…" Sherlock stammered to a halt. He, for once, was at a loss for words. The silence stretched between them, Sherlock staring, John panting. Sherlock's astute observational skills kicked in. He saw John's heaving chest. _He ran here. _He saw his slicked back hair. _He ran fast. _He saw the slight tilt to the way he was standing, the smell of flowers, the mud on his pant leg. _Crashed into the florist's cart and twisted his ankle. _He saw the slight part to his lips, his tongue running along its edge. At that his mind froze. He just stared. Sherlock's eyes tracked the tongue involuntarily. He felt a bolt of heat shoot straight to his groin.

"Sherlock, I'm getting soaked so could you say something?" John broke the silence, snapping Sherlock back to reality.

"John," Sherlock croaked out, his throat suddenly dry. ",you have to let me explain."

"You kissed me and I want to go to dinner. What's there to explain?"

"Why I did what I did,"

John faltered. Clearly he was expecting the worst, just as Sherlock had feared.

"Was it an experiment?" his voice came low and deadly.

"No, John, of course not! I just needed to make you understand,"

"Understand what?"

"You spoke as though you were unimportant. You called yourself broken, disgusting, filthy. I need you to understand just how far from the truth that is. No, don't interrupt me. You know how I hate it when people interrupt me. John, to me, you are what other people should aspire to be, not someone they should tread on. You are the one that fixes the broken and enlivens the saddened. You are the one that pulled me from the edge when I thought I might fall. You fixed me, John, and someone who does so much good could never have a spec of filth on them. You made me human. You made me whole. You said I taught you to look beneath the surface but that's all you see of yourself. John Hamish Watson, you are the most beautiful and pure man I'll ever know and I did what I did so that you would understand just how important you are to me and to the rest of this godforsaken city." Sherlock had been so wrapped up in his rant that he hadn't noticed that the rain had stopped and the moisture on John's face was not just due to the weather. The doctor stared at the detective and the detective at the doctor. Sherlock looked away first, unable to hold the crippling gaze of John's glassy blue eyes. "John, I'm getting soaked so could you say something?" Sherlock mimicked.

He waited for a reply but it didn't come. He looked up to see John standing no more than a foot away from him. Sherlock barely had time to gasp at the sudden proximity before a pair of lips clapped onto his. Sherlock melted into it; the touch, the feeling. He could see the light that John missed. It shone brighter than the sun. No filth could cling to him when he shone with such a dazzling light. Sherlock felt as though, just being able to stay close to that light, the grime that had shrouded him for so long had been scrubbed away. Not completely but enough to make life seem worth living again. John was the candle in the darkness. He was too good for this world and the people in it. He was too good for Sherlock.

That was the truth beneath the surface of John Watson.

**The End**

**A/N: ****Tada! The very anticlimactic ending to an overly long ramble! I hope you had fun and all that jazz! Apologies if it's shit which it probably is but anyway… I have to go and do an assignment that's due in two days that I haven't started now. See you next time guys!**

**OH RIGHT! I forgot about the easter egg! Yeah, nobody even tried to guess it so I'm just gunna tell you. All of the chapter titles in this fic were names of the original Arthur Conan Doyle Sherlock Holmes short stories! Just a little fun on my part.**

**So, thanks again for reading and I'll see you later!**


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